A/N 1: I'm fuzzy on if a human could kill Luci with the archangel blade. But for the sake of this story, I'm going with yes.
Vengeance.
Sam knew vengeance.
Dean didn't have to warn him about it, he'd grown up on it. It was the cereal he'd eaten with no milk, the sleep he'd gotten with no bed, the promises he'd listened to with no hope.
And after he'd grown up it was the knowledge in his head, the weapons in his hands, the scars on his body.
Sam knew vengeance.
He didn't know its absence.
He had no experience walking in a direction that wasn't toward revenge.
He didn't know what to do with a life where the Big Bad –the Big Bad – was dead. Really, truly, permanently dead and gone.
Was it rational to feel off-balance at the loss of that torment?
Was it possible to be afraid of having nothing to fear?
"You okay?" Dean asked. Had asked a hundred, a thousand, times since they got back. And Mom would look sad and Cas would look grim and Jack wouldn't look at all because he never was anywhere Sam was since they got back.
Since –
Since what, Sam? Hunh? Since what?
"Seriously," Dean said. They were in the medical room. "You got a stomach ache, or something else?"
"No. Why would you even ask that?" Sam asked. Sure, his guts felt twisted up, knotted up like boot laces, but he wasn't going to let Dean know that. Dean would just –
He followed Dean's pointed look to where he had his hand pressed against his abdomen. He dropped his hand.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah." The word dragged out of Dean's mouth. "So, Pepto or Phillips?"
Shut up, Sam said. Thought he said. Wanted to say. He was fine. Fear was dead. Evil was dead. It was fine, he was fine, nothing was fine. "I'm going to my room."
His room and the med room were separated by two hallways and a sharp turn. Two hallways where the lights were too bright, the colors were too loud, and everything felt new and old and wrong and waiting.
Jack was there, in the hallway, at the sharp turn. Jack was there and then he was somewhere else and Sam was walking into the kitchen.
They were never in the same place at the same time since they got back.
Since Sam –
Since what, Sam? Since – c'mon, say it with me – since – you killed –
"Thought you were going to your room," Dean said. Dean was everywhere Sam was. Sam couldn't walk into a room since they got back and not find Dean. "Here, I was going to bring this to you," and Dean handed over a clear plastic cup filled with a thick, white, liquid. Phillips it is.
Sam tried to argue, "No, I'm not – I don't – it's just -" but his guts were twisting themselves into clock springs and his forearm was pressing vainly against his belly.
Evil was dead. It was gone. No more evil. No more fear. No more sleepless nights, foul dreams, hideous memories.
No more no more no more no more.
He drank the chalky liquid; the plastic cup crackled and fractured in his fist. There couldn't be no more. There had to be more. There was always more.
"Okay, Sammy. Let me have that, let me look at your hand," and Dean was pulling his fingers open, prying the bits of plastic out of his grip.
"Dean? When you – when you killed Alistair. Did that – did that change anything?"
No, that was – no. There was something wrong with that question. Dean was looking at him like he didn't understand it, like he didn't like the question. It wasn't – what was it supposed to be?
"You killed him, right?"
"No, Sam," Dean answered slow, like the answer was dangerous. Or maybe like Sam was dangerous. "You killed him."
Laughter,, grating, cackling laughter, spun Sam to look behind him. How many times have you killed me already, Sammy? Hmm? And I keep – coming – back. You can't get rid of me. You'll never be rid of me. You wanna know why? Hunh, Sammy? You wanna know why? 'Cause I'm in your noodle, Sam-I-Am. Your noodle. You'll never get rid of me.
"Sam?"
There was no one there. No one with him but Dean.
"Sam?"
Only Dean.
"I want to go lie down."
"Yeah. All right. You should. I don't know how long it's been since you slept."
And Sam started to walk out of the kitchen into the loud, bright hallway. And then he stopped. Mom was out there, Cas was out there.
Jack was out there.
Sam couldn't be where Jack was because Jack was never was Sam was. Not since they got back.
Not since you killed –
"Dean?"
But Dean wasn't in the kitchen. Sam heard his footsteps in the hallway. Maybe going to Sam's room. Probably going to Sam's room. Sam couldn't walk into a room since they got back and not find Dean there already.
If he could get to his room, he'd be okay. If Dean was there. If he could get to wherever Dean was. Sam bent his head against the glare of lights in the hallway and walked toward his room. There was too much light. Too much exposure. Too many things that should've stayed hidden, should've stayed in the dark.
You thinking about what we did all those years and years and years, Sammy? You remember, don't you? Should I remind you? Should I tell everybody here what we – did – to you?
He could get to his room. His room was just down the hall and around a corner from the kitchen. He only had to make it that far. Dean would be there. Dean would be in his room. Dean would be somewhere. Wherever Dean was Sam would go there. He couldn't walk into a room without Dean being there. Not since they got back.
Not since –
Say it. C'mon, Sammy, say it. It's not that hard. Since you killed me. You can't even say it. Why can't you say it?
"Sam?"
That wasn't Dean. It was Jack, standing just past the corner of the hallway. Standing in front of Sam's room. Standing between him and Dean.
He'd leave, he would. Jack would leave. Sam would go to the kitchen, and Jack wouldn't be there anymore. Jack would leave.
But the kitchen wasn't where Dean was and Jack didn't leave.
"Sam? Are you okay?"
Jack didn't leave and Sam couldn't get to Dean.
Sam hadn't been alone with Jack since they got back.
Since Sam killed -
You killed his old man. You get that, right? How you think he feels about that, hmm? Sammy? You would've ripped my guts out right in front of him if you could've. You shoved that archangel blade so far up my gullet it came out in Tuscaloosa. You think he's gonna thank you for that? You think he's standing there bursting with gratitude? You think I can be nasty? You ever see what he can do?
"I want Dean," Sam said. He knew he said it. He knew he said it out loud. "I need Dean."
Where is Dean, Sammy? Huh? Where is Dean? I'll tell you where he's not – he's not with you. You'll never never spend as much time with Dean as you have with me. Ever. It's you and me, kid. I'm your whole life.
"I just need to get to Dean," Sam said. Knew he said. Thought he said. Jack didn't hear him or didn't want to hear him or didn't understand or didn't care. Jack walked towards Sam, walked closer to him, made Sam back away, farther from his room, farther from Dean.
"Please."
Maybe you don't want to be rid of me.
"Stop it." If Jack would just stop walking, if that voice would just stop talking, Sam could just think. "Please."
You still dream about me, don't you?
"Please stop."
I dream about you.
"I – I – " He couldn't breathe. The pain twisting his guts was nothing now compared to the white hot agony in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He couldn't get away. Jack was there. Jack was still there. Mom and Cas were there. He couldn't get away.
"Dean. I need Dean."
"Sorry, Sammy-Sam-Sam. I don't think you're ever going to see Dean-o again."
"Shut up. Shut up, get away from me. Get away. Get away."
The searing pain seared through his lungs and up into his skull and before everything totally whited out, the last thing he didn't see was Dean.
tbc
A/N 2: I'd like to ask thoughts & prayers for my son, who was recently diagnosed with a serious & potentially progressive eye condition. Thank you!